True Love, Girl Scout Cookies, and Me

Or What Passes For Love When You’re 13 Years Old

Let’s call her Janis. It’s close enough to her real name that I’ll be able to remember it long enough to tell this story.

I dreamed of her last night. (And don’t worry; I looked it up. Dreamed and dreampt are both acceptable. Dreamed is considered more refined, and if there’s one thing about me, it’s that I am as refined as hell, dammit!)

I’m sure it was because of the music I listened to last night as I drifted off to sleep. Herman’s Hermits, if you can believe that!

Mrs. Brown, you’ve got a lovely daughter
Girls as sharp as her are somethin’ rare
But it’s sad, she doesn’t love me now
She’s made it clear enough it ain’t no good to pine*

At the ripe old age of 13, I was an expert on love. After all, look at all the people and things I loved: my mom; my dad; and yes, even my younger brothers. My dog. Tomatoes.

And Girl Scout cookies.

Janis sold Girl Scout cookies. I sold newspapers. Even had my own route. And I was in love with her, even before the cookies. I spent every cent I earned from selling papers to buy Thin Mints from Janis. I had given her a bracelet at Christmas…